


Wrench in the Machine

by seatbeltdrivein



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-30
Updated: 2010-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-11 08:57:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seatbeltdrivein/pseuds/seatbeltdrivein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The new government has more than enough uses for the Crimson Alchemist, even if said uses involve things like renting him out as an assistant to strange foreign scientists bent on building weapons of mass destruction. [Written for the Kimbley round of fma_fuh_q on livejournal.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrench in the Machine

**Author's Note:**

> AU in regards to Kimbley being alive and Alfons being in Ed's world rather than vice-versa and reads like it's part of a larger universe, which it is most certainly not. Also, never underestimate the power of patriotism.

It was always so _easy_. After years and years of watching, Kimbley could meld in with the rest of the human population, display their emotions, do the dance. He was a god damn _master_.

But there were always those few overly perceptive souls hanging around, ready to throw a wrench in his machine.

"Something wrong?" he asked, the very picture of gentlemanly concern. The man shrugged away from him, the smile on his face stiff.

"Ah, I am fine. Please, don't worry for me," the man said quickly, waving his hands. "I'm just going to head home."

"I thought this was your project." Kimbley glanced at him and then made a show of examining his nails, watching the young man puff up obstinately, the show of it strangely familiar.

"It is," he insisted. "My name is on the research, is it not?"

Kimbley frowned, glanced at the front of the file he'd been given. "Alfons Heiderich?" The man nodded. "Yes, then that's you," he finished, smiling benignly. "We'll be working very closely together. Let's not get off on the wrong foot, Alfons."

"It's not your foot I'm worried about," Alfons muttered, and Kimbley, had he been anyone else, probably wouldn't have caught it.

Mechanical smile firm on his face, eyes slanted in purported geniality, Kimbley said nothing.

...

Alfons instructed their initial planning meetings, the times and the place, always public and always crowded as hell, enough to make just catching a single word nearly an impossible feat.

The beer, at least, was always good.

"I am afraid I am not understanding," Alfons admitted, one hand always on his glass, the other resting carefully on the table. "You are an alchemist who specializes in explosives. Why would the military think you could help? Rocketry is not solely based in explosives."

"You're the only man in the world that seems to know anything about it. Perhaps you were unclear with your needs? I, for one, find your charming accent distracting."

Alfons scrunched his nose, eyebrows drawing together, and he was always so damn expressive that Kimbley couldn't help but push every button he found, over and over, just to get the poor bastard to react, to move and laugh and frown and shout. Too easy, too _fun._

"My charming accent," Alfons echoed dryly. "I am very certain that was not the issue."

"You never know. It's different from what we usually hear in Amestris. Where are you from?"

"Far away," Alfons said, and Kimbley had to admit that he was getting fucking sick of that answer. "But I suppose, if this is all I will be getting," like he was honestly disappointed in Kimbley's abilities, "then I can make some use of you."

"Some use." Kimbley tried to catch the waiter's eye in the mess of the crowd around him, needed another drink if he was going to work _with_ the man and not _on_ him. The higher-ups had been explicit on what he could and couldn't do, and _do not, in any way, injure this man_ was pretty much the first thing they'd said (and also every other thing they said, like he needed infinite reminders to keep his hands to himself).

"So long as you do as I say, this arrangement will be fine."

In the end, Kimbley did not get another drink. The waiter, he imagined as he left the bar much later and without Alfons' company, would not be missed.

...

The military wanted bombs, missiles, things that even Drachma, for all their technology, couldn't begin to fathom. Amestris would have explosives they could detonate from miles and miles and miles away, could sit in their homes and drink their liquor and laugh about while cities burned and people died.

Alfons could provide that, Kimbley discovered.

"You were working for another country, right?" he asked one day when the lab was empty, himself a weary body leaning against the wall and Alfons still hard at work on something that Kimbley just didn't understand. "Doing this."

"I was," Alfons confirmed, possibly the first bit of information about his past Kimbley had ever heard. He very nearly felt like dancing.

"So, what, Amestris discovered you and offered another deal?" A better one, apparently.

Alfons was quiet after that, nimble fingers working on a series of tiny multicoloured cords pouring from the rocket's side panel. Finally, he stood. "Amestris did not find me," he said in his strange, thick accent, the words dolled out carefully. "Edward found me."

"Edward." Kimbley drew a blank, but the name meant something, an Edward in the military—

And then it all came back, Lior, the brothers, his own impossible escape. "Edward," he said again, feeling the thrill of the boy's power like he was seeing it in that very moment, "Elric, you mean? The Fullmetal Alchemist?"

Alfons nodded. "He is retired now, but he did say that was his title. It does not make sense," he added, obviously puzzled. "Edward had two metal limbs. Fullmetal makes him sound like an android."

And what the hell was an android, Kimbley wasn't going to bother asking. "So you're friends with Elric." It made sense in a twisted way that he'd be sentenced to work for one of the boy's lackeys. "It doesn't seem his style. That kid didn't like the idea of killing—or war. What you're doing," he gestured around the room, "is building a war."

"I have pride in my home," Alfons said. "And sometimes, war is an unavoidable necessity. I would fight for my home."

Kimbley, not for the first time and definitely not the last, pitied whatever poor nation had lost their rocket man.

...

Kimbley's use, in the beginning, had fallen somewhere between Alfons' gopher (the man drank an inordinate amount of coffee) and Alfons' delivery man. Then the man began to relax, falling at ease around his work. Kimbley's background was strong in chemicals, and Alfons began to explain the basics of liquid fuels.

"They're very combustive," Kimbley observed.

"That is sort of the point, yes," Alfons said. "I need everything on this list. It is all at one location. We must only go to retrieve it."

"We?" Kimbley almost laughed. "You mean _me_."

"No," Alfons said firmly, "I say only what I mean. I am to retrieve the chemicals, and you are to make certain that nothing goes wrong."

At that point, Kimbley switched from Alfons' gopher and delivery man to Alfons' guard, a profession he found much more relevant to his interests. "That, I can do," Kimbley said, anticipatory grin sweeping across his face.

For a long moment, Alfons stared at him, expression hard. Then, "Where I come from, people who make such expressions are often up to mischief. Do not smile at me like that or I will make you ride in the trunk." He spun on his heel, barking out orders to a cluster of befuddled researches down at the other end of the lab, and Kimbley let the smile drop.

Working for Alfons, in a very strange way, was just like working for Archer (may the man rot in his own special corner of Hell).

...

"You are a terrible driver," Alfons said not twenty minutes down the road. The smoke billowing up from the laboratory was still visible in the darkening skyline behind them. "You are almost as terrible as Edward."

"I'm an alchemist, not a chauffeur," Kimbley said, hands tight on the steering wheel. "If you'd wanted a driver, you should have requisitioned one."

"I cannot," Alfons said. "Not everyone in Amestris' military can be trusted. You are here, and I needed you."

It was sound logic, Kimbley had to admit, but the man had an eerie way of wording things.

"You make it sound like you're looking for a getaway driver," Kimbley snorted.

Alfons said nothing.

"Wait—you _are_ looking for a getaway driver?"

"Do not misunderstand," Alfons said, tripping over his own words, "I do not approve of these sorts of things, but Amestris has—where I come from," he abruptly switched gears, and Kimbley scrambled to follow his line of thought, "your country comes before anything else. I am in Amestris now, and Amestris is my priority."

An odd way of stating the facts, but Kimbley supposed he could respect it. "So we're stealing these chemicals. Is that what you're saying?"

"We are not stealing," Alfons said dismissively. "We are merely taking into our possession what already belongs to the country by default. The base we are going to," he opened the glove compartment, pulled out a map, "is here. It is not an Amestrian base."

"Oh?"

"It is a base of a movement for rebellion," Alfons said, lips curling, as though the idea of such disloyalty was worse than the taste of rotting food. "They are planning to trade the items we need to the nation north," he paused. "Drachma, they are trading with the Drachmans."

Kimbley whistled. "And, what, you think we're going to be able to just walk in and take what we want?" Surely the man wasn't so naïve.

"No," Alfons said. "You are going to make it so that I _can_," and Kimbley's blood sang in his veins.

...

The base was small, quiet, unassuming, resembling a small warehouse more than a base of military operations—the perfect place to sell illegal goods from. Alfons had ordered Kimbley to cut the lights a mile or so before they got there, and the two sat in the car, in the dark, and watched.

"You're the boss," Kimbley said breezily. "Where are my orders?"

Alfons looked strained, and Kimbley could recognize a battle when he saw one, the moral dilemma warring in Alfons' eyes. His country or human lives. Alfons shook his head, a single, sharp movement, and cleared his throat.

"Do not destroy anything," Alfons said. "We need whatever is in the base, and if your explosives destroy any of it, there will be problems, even if one was to ignore the fact that every chemical they are hiding has combustive properties." Alfons worried his lower lip, and Kimbley watched him with sharp, eager eyes. Finally, as though the words were difficult to express, Alfons added, "Do not leave anyone alive."

The trouble with a second language, Kimbley thought, was that one must express fully their intention to be certain the meaning came across clear. There were no euphemisms, no clever words to beat around the bush.

As Kimbley strolled from the car, rolling his shoulders to relax the joints, he looked behind him, a single glance, and caught sight of Alfons, forehead resting against the steering wheel.

It must have been difficult, being so human.

...

Killing the members of that pathetic rebel movement was easier said than done. The chemicals were stored in crates and spread about haphazardly. At least the bastards had the sense to label them.

They didn't seem to have the sense for much else though, which was all well and good for Kimbley. He'd walked straight in the front entrance without any resistance, and the men sitting around with cards and beers in hand looked so shocked to see him standing there that he'd managed to turn three into stains on the floors and walls, vague memories, before any of the others even so much as blinked a reaction.

"Fucking dogs!" The last man knew he would die, had to; one needed only look around to see where he was headed.

"You should be thankful," Kimbley said. "There is no grace in living, no real art to it. This," he held up one hand, palm outward, the transmutation circle in clear view, "is your way to greatness." It was a good thing Alfons wasn't there to see the look on his face, that's all Kimbley had to say on the matter.

"You're insane," the man spluttered. His face was covered in a spray of blood and viscera, and Kimbley's eyes roved over the man's features, took in the beauty of the fear and destruction. "Military shits, you won't win," the man promised. "Even if I die—"

Which, of course, he did, and right then, because Kimbley hated it when the bastards waxed sentimental right before they died, couldn't stand the excrement they'd spew, just for another few precious moments of cycling oxygen in and carbon dioxide out of their shuddering, overworked lungs. Before the poor bastard could draw breath for another word, Kimbley slammed his palm against the man's chest, watched black spread up to his neck, his face, watched disbelief bloom in his eyes.

"Boom," Kimbley said (just for the dramatic effect, because why the hell not?). For his troubles, he received a face full of decimated flesh particles, sprayed across his body like a ribbon.

All in all, it was a pretty good day.

...

The car was parked right where he'd left it, but Alfons was outside, leaning against the passenger side door with his eyes closed.

"Mission accomplished," Kimbley said. "How's that?"

A deep inhaling breath, then Alfons' eyes opened. He looked tired, the shadows under his eyes visible even in the night. "I am certain it is good enough," he said, and what the fuck did it take to impress him, anyway? It took a moment, but when Alfons finally noticed the red sheen clumped to Kimbley's skin and clothes he looked away, took off his coat, and handed it to him.

Kimbley shrugged and cleaned himself up. "There are a lot boxes in there. I'm not sure that we'll be able to get them all in the car." There wasn't a chance they could, actually. The car was small, nothing but the two front seats and two backseats.

Alfons didn't seem bothered. "We are not taking anything tonight. There is a town," he pointed east, "just that way. We have accommodations there for the night. A platoon will be arriving from Central tomorrow morning to assist in the transportation."

"And they couldn't have done this?" Kimbley asked, handing Alfons' jacket back. Why send him at all? The new fuhrer wouldn't have wanted to send Kimbley in without reason, the pacifist bastard. He'd send Mustang before he ever sent Kimbley.

"You have been restless," Alfons said simply, holding the jacket between two fingers and staring at it like it was something particularly foul. When he threw it in the open car door, Kimbley knew Alfons wouldn't ever be wearing it again. "I did not wish for your inactivity to cause any problems, and I took the opportunity that I saw."

Kimbley didn't really know what to say to that other than, "Is that so?" He wondered what Fullmetal would think if he saw his friend (is that what they were?) catering to the whims of a mass murderer.

But even so, Kimbley was an alchemist. Equivalent Exchange was his guiding principal, and Alfons had to know that, had to expect something from Kimbley for this.

"That is so," Alfons said. "Get in the car. I want to get to the hotel as quickly as possible. It has been a very long night, waiting for you."

The drive to the town was silent, and every time Kimbley so much as glanced at Alfons, the man was looking out the window, his entire body radiating pure dejection. Stupid, that's what it was. If he hadn't wanted all those shitheads to die, why'd he order Kimbley to do it? It wasn't like he had to, had _said_ he hadn't.

"Is this really it?" The hotel was—Well. It was small, looked filthy on the outside, and Kimbley spotted three prostitutes in the immediate vicinity within ten seconds of pulling the car up to the curb.

"I am afraid so," Alfons said, but he was at least sitting up again, straight backed and like the last few hours hadn't happened. "It's late, we should hurry and check-in."

"It looks like an undercover brothel," Kimbley observed. It wouldn't be too bad if it was. "You think we can write off a few as a business expense?"

The dead stare Alfons gave him was answer enough. "We are sharing a room," he said carefully. "If you do anything untoward that I am forced to listen to, I will make you sleep in the car." _Don't think I won't do it_, his eyes said. _Because I really, really will._

Scientists were such prudes.

Kimbley should have guessed it. Alfons, in his own strange way, really was similar to Archer, and after working for him, Kimbley'd come to the conclusion that not only was Archer a cold as hell bastard, but he probably didn't have a dick. Unfortunately, he was beginning to think the same of Alfons. He'd never seen the younger man with a single woman, hadn't really seen him do much at all outside the lab. It made sense, why he was friends with Elric. They both had the most ridiculous single-minded determination that it left little to no room for a personal life.

Real lives of the party, those two.

But Kimbley could still see the dead men in his mind's eye, their deaths an artistic film running nonstop through his head, a never-ending reel that he wouldn't cut off for anything, and nothing, absolutely nothing, got him hard and wanting as much as reliving a bloody battle. When he climbed out of the car, a few steps behind Alfons, he knew he had to be walking a little awkwardly.

"Hurry up," came Alfons' irritable voice, the man already standing at the front door. To his right, a girl wearing next to nothing was giving him a prospective look, hips jutting out, breasts bouncing.

_Good luck with that_, Kimbley snorted.

"Yeah, I'm coming," he called ahead. "Go get the room, I don't feel like running to keep up with you." He wasn't going to rush. He'd never rushed for Archer, for anyone he'd worked with, so there was no way he'd be making special allowances for his mad rocket scientist boss.

By the time he made his way into the lobby, an open room that looked just as shitty as the outside of the building, Alfons was just stepping away from the counter, keys in hand.

"Room 104," Alfons said before walking away, and Kimbley followed, a bit faster than before, managed to catch up with the man just as he was unlocking the door.

"This place is filthy."

"I know," Alfons scoffed. "You think I am blind? This is all we were given, and it is better than sleeping in the car."

"I suppose," Kimbley said dubiously, stepping into the room after him. It wasn't big either, though at least it looked safe enough to sleep in, the sheets clean and the sharp scent of antiseptic floating in from the open bathroom door.

There was one bed. Kimbley frowned, looked at the bed, looked at Alfons, brows high. Alfons managed to look sheepish, shrugged. "As I said, this was all we were given. I cannot argue with having a bed, no matter the circumstances."

"We're sharing?"

Alfons shrugged again. "If it bothers you, the floor is available. I did not take you for the squeamish sort. Perhaps I was wrong?"

"Did you and Elric share a bed?" Kimbley asked, trying to unsettle him, but it backfired when Alfons shot back, "We did, and very often."

Well, Kimbley thought. _Well_.

"You said you two were friends," Kimbley began slyly, "but I didn't realize you were _that_ close."

Alfons flushed at that, the first real reaction Kimbley'd gotten out of the man since they'd left for the mission that morning. He grinned widely, stepped closer, waiting for Alfons to call his bluff.

Alfons didn't budge, and the space between them closed rapidly. "Where I am from, there was not much space," he shrugged, self conscious, and smiled wanly back at Kimbley. "We became, as you say, _close_ after that."

Kimbley stared. "You're still close?" He didn't move away, stood so he was staring, head angled just barely downward to look Alfons straight in the eyes.

"No, not anymore. It was for convenience, where we were. Now, he is much happier with other people. I am too familiar." Alfons smiled ruefully.

"I get it," Kimbley said, the light bulb blaring on in his head at the sudden insight. "You don't even like women, do you? I should've known!"

Alfons frowned. "I am not following you. There is nothing wrong with women."

"I meant," Kimbley said, "your dick doesn't like them," and he very nearly laughed at the way Alfons blanched.

"That's personal," the man said stiffly. "I do not have to discuss it with—"

"You know, I don't mind. In fact," Kimbley's grin spread across his face, the mechanical picture breaking into something real, "I think we could call this equivalent."

Alfons took a step away, and the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed. "What are you saying?" he asked, clearly alarmed. "What is equivalent?"

"You gave me something do. I think I should return the favour." Kimbley took a step, closed the space again, and watched Alfons' pupils dilate. One hand on the younger man's shoulder, and he could feel the life flowing tense, jumping under his palm.

"This is unnecessary," Alfons said, the words breathy, hitting the bottom of Kimbley's chin as he leaned over, Alfons leaning backwards, moving with him.

"If I want it, it's necessary," Kimbley said, and Alfons closed his mouth, ass hitting the bed, scooting backward. Kimbley crawled on after him, hands already working the zip of his trousers.

Alfons' hands were shaking when he leaned closer, knocked Kimbley's own away, and tugged the military-issued trousers open, pulled Kimbley closer with his grip on the coarse material. "I was under the impression you were fond of women," he muttered, nose pressed hard into the sharp angle of Kimbley's jaw.

"Military," Kimbley pointed out, "I like what I can get," as he tugged Alfons' shirt out, slid his hands up against smooth, bare skin. Alfons' mouth was on his neck, and he could hear the man breathing, panting, against his skin, wondered if Elric got the same treatment.

The bed was too small for much movement, and Alfons was on his back in no time flat, Kimbley working his way down his body, the shirt open, buttons god knows where on the floor. "Pants," Alfons said through clamped teeth, "off, _off_," like it was the only thing he'd ever wanted in the world, and who was Kimbley to complain?

"You're the boss," he said, words a warm breeze flowing from his lips, curving around the edge of Alfons' ear, sliding straight into his mind. Alfons had never been so compliant, so easy to please as he was on his back with his legs working slow slides up and down Kimbley's calves, thighs. Kimbley pushed back, jerked off his trousers and pants down to mid-thigh and sat still on his knees while he tried to work Alfons' clothes off his lower half around the mad squirming movements. There wasn't room to move, none at all and Kimbley managed to get everything bunched around Alfons' knees before he gave up, fell back on the man's body and set his mouth to work, honeyslow movements up his chest, his neck, a nip to the exaggerated angle of his jaw.

"It is hardly equivalent," Alfons said, strained, breathing through his words, "if you do not let me move, I want to touch—"

And if that didn't go straight to his cock, Kimbley didn't know what did, direct words somehow everything he'd wanted to hear in that moment. They rolled onto their sides, and the freedom allowed them both to kick off the rest of their clothes, only the shirt hanging off Alfons' broad shoulders remaining.

But it was enough, and Alfons was free to move, long fingers and a wide palm encircling Kimbley's dick, squeezing, jerking, and Kimbley could've let himself come undone to that if he'd wanted, could've let Alfons tug him off until he came all over both of them, but he wanted something, anything. In the heated frenzy, Kimbley thought of being inside someone for the first time in a long time, without violence, and in the back of his mind it settled, _I could get used to this._

One hand crept around Alfons' back, slid down, and Kimbley imagined the arrays on his palms against the pale skin and shuddered. Lower still, fingers brushing down against the cleft of Alfons' ass, and Kimbley, still straining against that slow-moving hand, said, "You mind?" His fingers played deeper, and Alfons arched, eyes fluttering against sensation.

"S'fine," he slurred, releasing Kimbley and pushing against his chest, urging him onto his back. "I can do this, it's fine," as he moved up and over. Kimbley let him, staring up at the smooth expanse of Alfons' chest, reached up to tug on the ruined shirt that still clung stubbornly.

With the kind of hotel it was (hardly even a hotel, Kimbley barely wanted to call it that), Kimbley wasn't surprised when Alfons reached over to the scratched up bedside table, jerked the drawer of it open and, cursing rapidly in a language he'd never heard, pulled out a vial of oil, half-empty.

His thighs were wet, some amalgamation of Alfons' cock dripping down and his own slapping wetly into the mess with every slight shift. "Why do you get to be on top?" Kimbley pushed his hips up, cock pressing into Alfons'. The man paused, fingers stalled and arm stretched out in midair to replace the vial, and groaned, a long, heavy sound that pooled in Kimbley's groin, an upward snaking heat.

After a heartbeat, two, Alfons just dropped the vial and left it where it hit the floor with a soggy _plunk_. "Because," he said, his hand disappearing behind him, "I am in charge," and Kimbley swore in his mind, _he really is just like that wax-faced bastard_—

But then Alfons' mouth was open, the muscles of his arm and shoulder flexing, tensing as stretched, and Kimbley wanted to see, wanted to watch _damn it_, but he was trapped between the spread of Alfons' thighs. He let his hands slide up the man's knees, nails scraping his legs, and the noises Alfons made might have been worth the wait if he weren't already so fucking hard. "Hurry up," he urged, his own voice nearly unrecognizable under the strain, "you take too fucking long, fucking _move_!"

"You are not very good at taking orders," Alfons breathed, shifting forward, one sticky hand bracing against Kimbley's chest while the other groped for Kimbley's cock. He would have helped, he really might have, but Kimnbley couldn't seem to move as Alfons sank down on him. His hands had found their way to Alfons' hips like he was trying to yank the man down onto his cock deeper, and Alfons chided him, "Patience," body rotating, hips making smooth, short circles as he dropped lower, "this world is always in such a hurry."

Kimbley didn't have time to think on the whole _this world_ comment, because he was suddenly balls deep in a vice grip, slick and hot and perfect. He tried to push up, and Alfons' head fell back, eyes closed as he grinded against the push and pull. "A minute," he panted, "wait for a—"

But Kimbley wasn't going to wait another fucking second. His hands clenched tight to Alfons' hips, hoping there would be bruises in the morning, and he drew his knees up until Alfons was immobile in the cradle of his legs. He must not have cared too much about being in control, because Alfons didn't struggle as Kimbley pushed into a sitting position and took hold of the pace, instead attacking his neck, his shoulders with his mouth. Kimbley fucked upward, pushed Alfons' hips against the motions, surprised by how little the man seemed to weigh. Out of the corner of his eye, Kimbley saw the bobbing of a blond head working its way across his shoulder.

He was too hard to last long, had been worked up for what felt like hours, days, an eternity, so Kimbley pushed his hand between them, grabbed Alfons' cock and tugged, killing the pace he'd made. Rutting, an unbalanced equation, Alfons sat up, one hand bracing backwards, the other on Kimbley's chest, riding him hard. Somewhere in the blur, Kimbley came, mouth opened and eyes closed. His fist must have squeezed because Alfons came toppling over the edge right with him, still clenching sporadically around Kimbley's softening cock.

It took a moment for his equilibrium to right itself, and then Kimbley fell back against the head of the bed, stared up at Alfons still sitting astride his thighs, felt the wetness on his hand.

"Equivalent enough?" he asked when his breathing settled to a dignified rate, and Alfons had the nerve to laugh at him.

"You alchemists have strange notions," Alfons said, pulling off without so much as a grimace, and again, Kimbley wondered about Elric. "I need a shower," Alfons continued. "Make the sheets clean."

"And how do you expect me to do that?" Kimbley's eyes followed Alfons across the room, watching light glisten off the back of his damp thighs.

"You are an alchemist," Alfons said slowly, as though to a child. "Unless Edward knows things you do not?" and the bastard shut the bathroom door.

Kimbley pursed his lips, rolled into a wet spot on the bed, and snorted.


End file.
